This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
I knew very well that chanting to myself wasn’t going to make the ludicrous tableau in front of me disappear. But at the time I was desperate enough to try anything. “Detective—”
“Clare, what the hell is going on? Tell me this isn’t about those missed child support payments. I thought we’d agreed! As long as I cover Joy’s tuition—”
“Matteo,” I began, “don’t get upset—”
“Upset? Upset? Clare, you’ve got me in handcuffs here!”
“Calm down! It’s not me who’s got you in handcuffs—and you’re the one who—” I stopped, hearing that embarrassing ex-wife tone in my voice. I closed my eyes, flashing on every domestic disturbance dispute I’d ever seen on those reality cop shows.
“Detective,” I tried again, with excessive calm. “There’s obviously been a mistake.”
Matt turned to Quinn. “You heard her.” He rattled his chain-linked wrists. “So get these damned things off me. Now.”
For a good ten seconds, Quinn didn’t move a corpuscle.
Officer Langley, on the other hand, shifted uneasily. He turned to me. “Ms. Cosi, you say this man is your ex—”
“Husband, yes,” I affirmed.
The young officer glanced at Quinn and scratched his head, clearly unsure whether this was yet another of the detective’s tests. Then Langley moved toward Matt’s wrists. Quinn’s arm blocked the way.
“Detective?” asked Langley.
“I have a few questions first.”
“Jesus H.—” said Matt.
“First of all, Mr. Cosi—” Quinn began.
“It’s Allegro,” snapped Matt.
“Cosi’s my maiden name,” I explained.
“Yes, she took it back—in record time,” Matt announced, as he usually did, with the tone of The Wounded—an indefensible stance in my opinion, considering his behavior during our marriage.
“Mr. Allegro,” Quinn tried again. “I need you to calm down.”
“Don’t patronize me—”
“I need you to calm down,” Quinn repeated.
“Jesus.”
Quinn glanced at Langley. “Let’s find him a seat.”
Langley grasped Matt’s ample bicep and paused when Matt tensed. Visiting high-altitude coffee plantations had been Matteo’s occupation for years. The remote regions had fed his passion for hiking, biking, rock-climbing, and cliff diving—all of which had honed a formidable physique.
I wasn’t surprised it had taken two men to cuff my ex-husband. And Langley didn’t appear overjoyed about wrestling him any further. But the moment’s resistance on Matt’s part was only an automatic reflex. A second later he exhaled, snapped out a “Fine, let’s go,” and allowed Langley to lead him into the living room.
Quinn followed, signaling through the back windows to Demetrios that everything was under control. Next he pulled the lyre-backed chair away from the wall and plopped it down in front of the fireplace, right in the center of the Persian prayer rug.
My breath caught a moment. If memory served, Madame once told me that lyre-backed chair was one of only thirty-two in existence. It was originally fashioned for the nearby Saint Luke in the Fields, founded in 1822, when Greenwich Village was still a rural hamlet.
Saint Luke’s, which still had the tidy, cozy feel of a rural parish, was one of the oldest churches in Manhattan. In 1953, Madame had attended poet Dylan Thomas’s funeral there, and in 1981, when the original chapel had been gutted by fire, the church held an auction of basement relics to raise money for the restoration. The Village Blend had provided the coffee and pastries free of charge and also purchased this finely made chair.
Langley led Matt to the chair and I cringed, dreading what another wrestling match would do to the delicate piece.
“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t move!”
The three men froze as I raced into the kitchen, brought back a sturdy Pottery Barn knockoff of a French café cane-backed turn-of-the-century Thonet.
I placed the Thonet down, returned the lyre-back to its place by the wall, and finally announced, “Go ahead, Detective…with your interrogation…or whatever.”
Matt let out a snort at the confused expressions on the other men’s faces. “She used to be sane,” Matt told them. “Back when I first met her. Before my mother got hold of her.”
I glared and he tilted his head, leering at me in that awful, confident way that seemed to say, “You never cease to amuse me, Clare.” Then he sat on the Thonet—its seat adorned by a Bordeaux velvet chair cushion—and coolly leaned back.
“Well, Detective. I’m seated. I’m relatively calm. But unless you want to charge me with something, I’m not about to answer any questions.”
“All right,” said Quinn. “Then I take it you don’t want to explain this?”
The detective’s hand disappeared into his shirt pocket and reappeared with a small vial positioned between his thumb and forefinger. Three-quarters of the vial was filled with white powder.
“Here we go—” said Matt wearily.
“Where did you find that!” I blurted to Quinn, knowing full well I didn’t want to know the answer.
“The right front pocket of your ex-husband’s jeans.”
I closed my eyes, shook my head. Didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to go through it. Not again.
“Take it easy, Clare,” said Matt. “It’s not what you think—”
“Matt, I can’t believe you’d take us down this road again—”
“I didn’t.”
“I can book you right now for possession,” said Quinn.
“Possession of what, Detective? Just what do you think you’ve got there?”
“Cocaine!” Langley blurted. “Right, Detective?”
“Wrong,” said Matt.
“I see,” said Quinn. “And from you ex-wife’s reaction, you’re going to tell me you weren’t an addict?”
“Christ. It’s caffeine.”
“Excuse me?” said Quinn.
“Caffeine. Pure caffeine.”
I laughed. It was a little hysterical, I admit, but I knew Matt was telling the truth. He’d said something to me last year about finding a way to get over jet lag without subjecting himself to the heinous vagaries of airport coffee. This must have been the solution.
“Rub a little on your gums, Detective, and you’ll see,” said Matt. “Coke numbs the gums. This doesn’t.”
Quinn shook the vial, contemplating the powder. “Caffeine?”
“Isn’t caffeine brown?” Langley asked.
“Coffee’s brown,” I told him. “Because of the roasting process the green beans are put through. But if that white powder is caffeine, it’s the by-product of the chemical process for decaffeinating coffee beans. It’s what supplies the caffeine in soft drinks.”
“And if it’s caffeine, this amount is legal?” Quinn asked.
“Well,” said Matt, “you’re holding about ten grams. A cup of joe has anywhere from one hundred to two hundred milligrams of caffeine. So I guess if you want to book me for possessing the equivalent of one hundred cups of coffee, you can try.”
“I don’t know,” said Quinn without a moment’s hesitation. “I guess I can believe you. Or maybe I can have it tested. That might take a while. Maybe even a day or two. Now where do you think I’d have you waiting during that time?”
“Fine,” said Matteo at last. “Ask your damned questions. What do you want to know?”
I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t seen anyone trump Matteo Allegro in years. Quinn had managed it inside of five minutes.
Quinn glanced at Langley. “Take the cuffs off.”
“Thank you,” said Matt, standing up so Langley could release him.
“What are you doing here? Your ex-wife says you don’t live here.”
“I travel most of the year,” said Matt, rubbing his wrists and sitting back down on the cane-backed Thonet. “But my mother owns this building, and around a month ago, when I was in Rio, she sent me a contract giving me the right to use this duplex when I’m in New York—”
“She what?!” It wasn’t that I couldn’t believe my own ears. I just didn’t want to.
“Ms. Cosi,” said Quinn. “I have to ask you to—”
“She made no mention of that to me!” I blurted.
“Why should she?” asked Matt. “You live in New Jersey, don’t you?”
“Not anymore. Last month I signed a contract with her, too,” I said. “I’m managing the Blend for a salary, a share of equity, and the right to live in this duplex!”
“Oh, Jesus.” Matt sighed. “Not again.”
Madame had perpetrated numerous schemes to get Matt and me back together. This was obviously her latest.
“Matt, don’t tell me you’re earning equity, too?”
“Yes,” said Matt. “Apparently she eventually wants us to co-own this place.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Cosi,” said Quinn, “but if you don’t allow me to continue with my questions, I’ll have to ask Officer Langley to escort you out of the room.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll sit. I’ll listen.”
But for a minute or two after taking a seat on one of the carved rosewood chairs, I did little more than silently stew. How could Madame have tricked me like this? How?!
In the meantime, Quinn was asking Matt a series of specific questions about his whereabouts the night before. I watched him take careful notes about the name of the airline he’d been traveling on and his flight number, and it occurred to me, with slow alarm, that Quinn was trying to determine whether Matt had anything to do with Anabelle’s fall.
“Did anyone witness your arrival here?” asked Quinn.
“Sure. The taxi driver.”
“Did you get his name or license?”
Matt smirked at Quinn for five long seconds. “What do you think?”
“And no one else saw you arrive?”
“It was five-fifteen in the morning. I was exhausted from a six-hour Jeep ride out of the Peruvian Andes, a fourteen-hour connecting flight from Lima to Dallas to JFK, and a two-and-a half-hour tango with U.S. customs. I collected my luggage, fell in a cab, and collapsed into bed the first chance I got. That’s it.”
“Did you notice anyone entering or leaving the premises when you arrived?” asked Quinn.
“No.”
“Notice anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all?”
“No.”
“Think about it, Mr. Allegro. What did you see when you exited the cab?”
Matt began to shift in his chair. He crossed a leg over his knee, rubbed his forehead, turned toward me. “Clare, did something happen last night at the coffeehouse?”
“Don’t talk to her right now,” said Quinn. “Just answer my question.”
Matt inhaled and closed his eyes. “The lights to the coffeehouse were on. I remember thinking it was early for that, but then I checked my watch and realized the bakery delivery was due between five-thirty and six.”
“And did you see anyone inside, through the windows?”
“No.”
“You didn’t enter the coffeehouse at all?”
“No. I was exhausted. I came in through the alley, went up the back garden stairs to the duplex, and that’s it.”
“Do you know Anabelle Hart?”
Matt looked taken aback. I leaned forward.
“Anabelle Hart?” asked Matt. “What’s she got to do with—”
“Just tell me,” said Quinn.
“Of course I know her. She’s one of our baristas downstairs.”
“And?”
“And what? That’s it.”
Quinn seemed unsatisfied with Matt’s answer. Or the way he answered. He stared for a few silent moments. “You don’t have any sort of special relationship with her?”
“Christ. She’s my daughter’s age.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she’s a child. She works downstairs. She works well. She has a boyfriend. That’s all I know. Why? What’s she been telling you?”
“No reason to have been angry with her?”
“What’s this about? Clare?”
I was about to answer when Quinn spoke up—
“Miss Hart’s had an accident. A fall down the service staircase.”
Matt’s eyes met mine. “Clare? Is she all right?”
I shook my head. “It’s not good. She’s in intensive care.”
“Aw, no—”
“Mr. Allegro, you have a key to the duplex, correct?” asked Quinn, continuing to scribble in his rectangular notebook.
“That’s obvious.”
“And a key to the coffeehouse downstairs?”
“Yes, of course. I’m the Blend’s coffee buyer and the owner’s son.”
“We may have more questions for you, Mr. Allegro,” said Quinn. “Do you have any plans to leave the city in the next week?”
“No. I’ll be here for at least two.”
“And you’ll be living here—”
“No!” I blurted. “He’s not living here.”
Matt’s eyebrow rose. “We’ll see,” he mouthed. Then he rose and dug into his back pocket. “Here’s my card. Cell phone number’s on there.”
“Fine,” said Quinn. He held up the vial of white powder. “I’m going to have this tested.”
“Christ,” said Matt. “Why? I don’t plan on participating in any Olympic events in the next forty-eight hours, and that’s about the only institution I can think of that considers caffeine a prohibited substance.”
Matt was right. One of our customers, a former Olympic fencer and coffee lover, had nearly tested positive for more than 12 micrograms of caffeine per milliliter of urine. He’d drunk something like three cups of coffee before his event. Consuming just two more would have gotten him banned from the Games.
“I’m testing it purely for Ms. Cosi’s sake,” said Quinn. “I think she has a right to know whether or not her ex-husband is telling her the truth about kicking his addiction.”
Matt’s eyes found mine. “I am.”
A moment later Langley was pulling open the door to the back staircase and heading out. Quinn was about to follow when Matt called, “Detective—”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry to hear about Anabelle. If there’s anything more I can do, let me know. I mean that.”
Quinn paused to study Matt’s face, then he nodded and, after a brief unreadable glance at me, the detective turned and left.